On the Sack of Sirion
by Staggering Wood-Elf
Summary: The Third Kinslaying, Maedhros and Maglor POV. Elwing and the boys are also in it.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Have you ever been attacked by muse at a most inconvenient time? I have. This is the result. I have no idea where it came from, what it means or why I wrote it, but I'm quite pleased I have something about my favourite Silmarillion characters at last. To readers of "A Noble Light"... I'll try to get chapter 2 written ASAP, but Maedhros and Maglor had other plans tonight...  
Some of you may remember Edhellion from my Gondolin fic. Be warned, he doesn't have a happy tale to tell here.  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I'm not sure I'd want to own much of this depressing fic...  
  
  
  
The Havens of Sirion, FA 532  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I sit alone at the end of a small wooden pier jutting out into the sea. The sky is perfectly clear and blue ahead of me as I look into the West. My eyes turn to the clear sea-water lapping at the sides of the pier, and I notice it's stained with blood.  
  
I look back across the deserted beach and see the destruction that we, no, I, have caused. Thick black smoke is pouring from the once-white buildings. No sea-birds cry here today, only the screams of the Exiles fill the air. Cries of fear and pain, and above the gentle sound of the waves, the unmistakable sound of burning. All of these sounds are familiar to me now. They should have no effect on me.   
  
I kneel down and carefully unfasten the ties on my boots, with my one hand. I lower my bare feet into the water, watching the ripples spread outwards across the gently undulating tide. I watch as the sun catches the crests of the waves, just before they reach the shore and are broken. I close my eyes, enjoying the cool sensation on my feet. I can almost block out the screams coming from the burning Haven. With my eyes closed I do not see the red hue of the tide lapping around my ankles.  
  
A moan of someone in pain close by makes me turn. Withdrawing my feet from the water, I stand up and slowly walk back along the pier, barefoot, carrying my boots over my arm. I look for the source of the sound and find it, soon enough. A tall Elf is lying slain on the sand, just a stone's throw away. I approach him, then kneel down beside him and nudge away the helmet covering his face with my elbow.  
  
To my horror, I realise I know him. It's Edhellion, once an acquaintance of my father in Tirion. He is kinsman to Elenwe, the wife of Turgon, and as far as I know followed his brother-in-law to Gondolin. As I look at him I see no recognition in his eyes, only hurt, and fear, and hate.  
  
"Why are you here?" he whispers in his failing voice. I lay my boots at his side in order to use my only hand to grasp his, but he pulls away.  
  
"Edhellion-"  
  
"You have done great wrong. Great wrong, son of Fëanor." he says with the last of his strength, then his hand slips from my grasp and he says no more.  
  
For a few moments I kneel beside him, perhaps out of respect, perhaps to allow his words to sink in. Strangely they have no effect on me. I stand up and pick up my boots from his side, and continue to walk down the beach. I feel detached from what is going on around me - the screams and smoke and blood affect me little. Not knowing where else to go, I come to the sea's edge and skim several rounded pebbles. They too make ripples, perfect circles crisscrossing the calm sea. Behind me, far along the beach, I hear someone approaching. I ignore them and stare at the water. Blood is flowing in rivulets from the Haven to the sea, staining the bright foam with red. Red, like at the Swanhaven so long ago. It was my hand, among others, that caused that. How much more pain must I bring to my kind before the Oath is fulfilled?  
  
The smoke rising from the burning Haven is blocking out the sky above me now. The screams are dying down, and once again the gentle shush-shush of the waves has predominance.   
  
The Oath. I am the Oath. It is me. When it is fulfilled, I will be no more. I will burn out like my father, or just fade in the light of the Jewels. I am the last of my brothers to live now, for I saw the twins slain in the city, and I am certain Maglor has perished too. Perhaps it is for the best. He is tired, so tired. Maybe the Halls of Mandos are the best place for him. And maybe, I will join him soon.  
  
The footsteps behind me draw nearer now, and a quiet voice hums a wordless tune. Without words, but not without meaning. It leaves me in no doubt of the identity of the singer.  
  
"Maglor." I say without turning. My brother says nothing, but lays a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I take him in: the dark hair, braided but in disarray, the torn battle-clothes, slashed and stained with blood, a sword-cut on his cheek, his large trusting eyes. In his other hand he holds his sword, drawn and notched with blows, but clean as it was before the battle. How like Maglor.  
  
"I have a new song." he said simply, his voice unreadable. "Would you like to hear it?"  
  
I nod, and sit down on the sand when he gestures me to. Only Maglor could sing at a time like this, and only he could put his thoughts and feelings into a song. Sometimes I envy Maglor's gift of music, and his kind heart. He was never born to be a son of Fëanor. I wish that he had been born a joyful Vanya, living in bliss and happiness. Somehow he doesn't belong here, on this deserted beach far from home where rivers of blood stain the sea red.   
  
His song falters.  
  
"It isn't finished." he says, but I knew that already. I stand up, and embrace him. Will this ever be finished? Will we ever end? Or, like the Silmarils, must we exist until the ending of Arda because of our oath?  
  
After a short while, he pulls free.   
  
"Round up our survivors, and search for it." I command him, the meaning of "it" known to both of us. He nods, and with a lingering glance at me, turns and starts slowly back towards the settlement of the Exiles. I turn, once more, back to the red tide, remembering Alqualondë. I cannot end here, that is not my fate.  
  
Soon, I follow him.  
  
  
  
THE END  
  
  
A/N: Maglor's song is in fact the Noldolantë, which I think he might have started writing by the time of the Third Kinslaying. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This was originally intended to be a one-chapter thing, but since my reviewers asked me to continue, I have decided to extend it. This time it is from Maglor's POV, as he searches for a Silmaril and finds... something else. The last part will probably return to Maedhros's POV.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I walk through the deserted streets, taking in the scene around me. Everyone who did not flee must be dead by now. The once-busy haven is strangely silent, the only sound the crashing of the waves on the shore. It is starting to rain, large drops falling from the heavy sky.  
  
I pull my cloak close around me and quicken my pace. Where I am going, I do not know. Up, my instinct tells me. Away from the city. I might as well follow it, as I have nowhere else to go. Looking around at the ruined buildings, I find it hard to believe that there was ever a Silmaril here. In the glow of the gems, everything looks warm and bright and more beautiful than I can imagine. The light in my father's face as he held the gem out to me, smiling one of his rare smiles.  
  
"Take it, my son."  
  
My brother's eyes as he took the other jewel in hand, as we stood together in the dark secret place underground where my father hid his works from my mother and the servants.  
  
"I would give any jewel except these, for only once can they be made. Look on them well, my sons. The Silmarils."  
  
I remember the light burning the back of my eyes as I gazed into the depths of the jewel. I remember the feeling of emptiness that I could not shake from my hand when my father took the jewels away and locked them up again. I remember the look on his face when we bound ourselves to the Oath, distraught yet more angry than I could know.   
  
My feet are leading me away from the destroyed haven and up towards the hills. The grass is thinning out and giving way to thick woodland. I look back toward the sea, bloodstained as it crashes against the rocky beach. A lone figure stands there, calling out my name.   
  
"Maglor! Maglor!"  
  
Feeling strangely rebellious, I do not turn back to my brother, and instead continue into the wood. I do not know precisely where I am going, but instinct tells me that I should leave the city behind. It is peaceful in these woods. No birds sing here today, but the devastation behind me is out of sight and I am alone among the trees.  
  
Or maybe not quite alone. My ears are well trained, for music, not battle, but they can still pick up the quietest of sounds. I turn, but do not draw my sword. What is the need? If whoever has followed me into the woods would kill me, then I shall let them. I no longer care. For death is release from the Oath, the terrible Oath that I should never have made.  
  
To my surprise, it is not a warrior, but a small boy, holding the hand of a smaller one to lead him through the woods. Both children have raven-dark hair and pale skin, and the older one wears a small silver circlet on his head. He stops dead when he sees me, and for a while we hold each other's gaze, doing nothing. He stares at me wide-eyed, but seemingly unafraid.  
  
I take a step towards him and he instinctively draws back, pulling the younger child close to him. His face is scratched and his clothes are torn and muddy. I guess that by the look of him, he was one of the few who managed to escape.  
  
"I do not mean to hurt you," I say, extending a hand. I take another step towards him, cautiously offering my friendsip.  
  
Suddenly he unsheaths the sword strapped to his chest and brandishes it at me, his face a picture of defiance. The sword is much too heavy for him and he struggles to balance it, even with two hands. The younger child runs behind him, as if to hide. I see his dark eyes peeking out from behind his friend, or brother as their appearances suggest.  
  
"Stay away!" He cries, and lunges at me. I dodge the blow, but allow him to pin me against a tree. For a moment, neither of us moves, him with his over-heavy sword at my throat, me with my hands raised in surrender. Eventually, his arms tire and he unwillingly lowers his sword.  
  
"I could have killed you." he says, still glowering at me in his defiance.  
  
"You could." I say. "Why didn't you?"  
  
He says nothing, and turns his attention to his sword. He kneels, and begins to clean it with the edge of his cloak. He pays careful attention to each edge and carving, and does not stop until it shines.  
  
"Is that your sword?" I ask. He looks up.  
  
"My father's."  
  
As I take in the appearance of the child and his brother, I realise who they are. These must be the two sons of Eärendil, the thief of the jewels, and Elwing, who kept them from us.  
  
"Maglor!"  
  
I turn, and see my red-haired brother running up the slope behind me, out of breath, battle-torn and limping a little from the rough ground. His face is angry.  
  
"Maglor! Why are you up here? You are needed in the city!" he says, his voice hoarse from shouting in the smoke-filled air. Then he notices the children. Clearly he knows their identity better than I did. He takes a step towards us, ready to grab them, but I stand in his way.   
  
"I will not allow you to hurt them." I say quietly. Maedhros looks surprised at me.   
  
"Maglor-"  
  
"The Silmaril is lost. We have done wrong by coming here." I say. Maedhros stops for a minute, staring at me, then he shakes his head and starts to run back towards the city. I watch him go.  
  
A small hand tugs my arm. It is the younger child, Elros I think he is called. I kneel down. The older child tenses, but does not attack me again.  
  
"You could have let him kill us. Why didn't you?" he asks. I have no answer.  
  
The older child approaches me. "Hold out your hands." He says. I comply, and he places his sword across my palms.  
  
"It is too heavy for me. Could you help me carry it?" He asks. His words come out awkward, and he looks at the ground.   
  
"Come with me." I say. A ray of brilliant sunlight breaks through the clouds over the Western Sea, and for a moment, it shines upon me.  
  
  
END OF PART 2  
  
A/N: Thanks sooooo much to Deborah for writing "As Little As Might be Thought" which was my main inspiration for this chapter. I'm sorry if I've borrowed your ideas! (You can have them back when I've finished chewing over them). Thankyou also to Finch and Mouse for the lovely reviews! :) 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Firstly, thank you to everyone who reviewed! People have such nice things to say... :) This will be the last chapter of this fic, but now it's put me in mind to write something about Elwing and Eärendil. But now I've said that my muse may desert me... Oh dear.  
  
  
Chapter 3  
  
  
  
  
  
Swipe. Thrust. Parry. Swordplay comes easily to me, and I need do nothing but deflect his attacks and wait for him to make a mistake. The sons of Fëanor are the greatest swordsmen to walk Middle-Earth, some have said. I do not know whether this is true. We learned our skill as any other young warrior would. The only difference was the teacher.  
  
Despite my weariness, I have the upper hand in the fight. He mis-times a blow, and I suddenly push forward at him hard with my sword. Knocked off-balance, my opponent falls to one knee, his own sword raised above his head in defence. Now I know what I must do. I push him to the ground with one foot, then strike him down with my sword. I catch the look in his eyes as his fëa departs for Mandos, an expression of surprise, of pain, and of anger that he allowed me to defeat him, and above all that, a calm weariness of acceptance, the submission to the summons of Mandos. Then, the light leaves his eyes and he falls back limp, his body lies bleeding on the rocks. You end today, kinsman. The sea roars angrily behind me, walls of foam smashing into the cliffs further down the beach. It is almost as if the tide is angry at me, for twice staining its shores with the blood of my kin.   
  
Wearily I stand, surveying the scene. Their number was few, and they were scantily armed. All lie slain on the shore now. They must have been the last remnant of Eärendil's guard, holding the cliff path to allow a few to escape into the hills beyond. I admire their courage, but it was hopeless to try and hold off the sons of Fëanor. Their red blood is flowing on the shore, marring the ocean, and their souls are in Mandos, waiting for release. I wonder how long it will be until I join them.   
  
I sheath my sword, and raise a hand to my face, shielding my eyes from the lashing whips of rain. The cliffs are steep and impassable as they rise from the flat river delta, with only a few paths made by the Exiles. Although I could reach the clifftops by turning back to the Haven, I had no wish to meet the accusing eyes of my brother, who no doubt still lingers there. I look around for the path, and soon find it. A steep, rutted track winding up the cliff. This would be my road. Here I could perhaps have a better view over the ruined land, to look for a bright jewel in the hand of an Elf-woman. Why did we not capture her? I curse the wife of Eärendil silently as I pick my way up the path, for she is the only one who could possibly hold the Jewel now. I find the climb unusually hard. I am weary from the battle, and blood is still leaking from a wound on my shoulder I sustained during the fight, but there seems to be a tiredness upon me that runs deeper. A weariness of Beleriand, perhaps? I force my gaze away from the Western sea, which is mocking me. The Prophecy of the North rings in my ears, over and over again, until I want to scream and fling myself into the water. The bloodstained tide swells.  
  
  
  
Or even a weariness of life?  
  
Struggling, I grasp the roots of a stunted tree and drag myself over the cliff face. It is such a great effort that all I can do is collapse onto the grass of the clifftop. For a short time, I lay there, listening to the wailing of the wind and the beating of my heart.  
  
"Maedhros?"  
  
I turn cold at the voice, for it is not one I recognise, but I know exactly who it is. I force my gaze upward, and clad in shimmering white, almost like a maiden of the Maiar in distant Valinor, stands a tall Elf-woman, her arms outstretched to the sea, one hand clasped around...  
  
I force myself to my feet, regaining my commanding tone of voice that I used to use to command my troops. "Hand over the jewel, Half-Elf."  
  
She shakes her head simply, her bird-like features unreadable.  
  
"No."  
  
"Elwing..." I am at a loss for what to say. She is standing right on the edge of the cliff, perilously close, and she is holding the jewel at arm's length... No hurt could be done to the Silmaril by such a fall, but an Elf such as me would surely be slain on the rocks for leaping after it.   
  
"You have doomed yourself, Maedhros, with your foolish Oath. Do not look to me for salvation, for I have none to give to you, slayer of my kin." She says in her delicate tone. As I watch in horror, she takes a step closer to the edge, and I realise what she intends to do.  
  
  
  
"No!" Is that my voice, crying out in anguish, as the vision in white steps calmly over the edge of the cliff, her gown flowing behind her like wings, the Silmaril held aloft like a radiant flame?   
  
  
  
Without knowing what I do, I fling myself after her, my thoughts only on grasping the Jewel, of redeeming the oath. Yet my hands grasp at nothing, I am too late, and I am falling, falling to my doom...  
  
"No!"  
  
Whose voice is this?  
  
Strong hands grasp around my chest, and pull me back with great effort, back over the edge of the cliff. My rescuer uses his own weight to pull me back, and he loses his balance under me and we both collapse onto the wet grass, panting and exhausted.  
  
Weakly, I turn my head to behold the face of my rescuer. He lies motionless, his eyes closed, sprawled on the ground. Strands of black hair have worked their way loose from his plait and are whipping up in the wind around his pale face. The right-hand fastening on his tattered cloak had come away completely, leaving it dangling from his left side. He is unarmed and clad simply, but his appearance cries out his heritage. And who could forget the identity of the owner of such a voice?  
  
"Maglor?"  
  
My brother opens his eyes.  
  
"Maedhros."  
  
I catch my breath before I speak again. "How did- what- why did you save me?"  
  
He shakes his head sadly, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "This Jewel is lost to us, brother. It has gone beyond our power to retrieve." And even as he speaks, a white bird rises on great wings, swooping high above the cliffs and into the pale light of the West, the jewel bound at its breast, like a shooting star.  
  
"It is out of our reach." I agree. "But the others? We must still retrieve them."  
  
Maglor closes his eyes again, and turns away from me.  
  
"Yes." he says almost inaudibly. "We must."  
  
The sky is beginning to clear, the rain is ceasing. White-gold shafts of sunlight pour from the broken cloud, illuminating the wings of the bird as it flies into the West, over the calm sea. I take Maglor's hand in mine, and he sits up, his eyes fixed on the pale shimmering mists that lie on the Western shores far away, beyond Elven eyesight. Behind us I hear the whispered conversation of two young children, and feel their suspicious glances. I wonder wearily who they are, and why they do not run like the others. But I do not care. I close my eyes and let the wind sweep my hair back from my face.  
  
"Will it ever end?" he asks at last, sitting up, his eyes still fixed on the far horizon. I shake my head.  
  
"I do not know, Maglor." I say, as the cloud parts and the sun shines brilliantly down on the sea in front of us.  
  
"We both know that's a lie, my brother." He says, but not unkindly. A quiet passes between us.  
  
The sun breaks through the cloud, and the darkness is banished, but for our long shadows cast down across the land from the clifftop.   
  
"I do not know..."  
  
  
The End 


End file.
